Through the Wall by Cleveland Moffett

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Kittredge stood as if in a daze staring at the note. He read it, then readit again, then he crumpled it in his hand, muttering: "O God!" And his facewas white.

"Good-by!" he said to Alice in extreme agitation. "I don't know what youthink of this, I can't stop to explain, I--I must go at once!" And takingup his hat and cane he started away.

"But you'll come back?" cried the girl.

"No, no! This is the end!"

She went to him swiftly and laid a hand on his arm. "Lloyd, you _must_ comeback. You must come back to-night. It's the last thing I'll ever ask you.You need never see me again but--_you must come back to-night_."

She stood transformed as she spoke, not pleading but commanding andbeautiful beyond words.

"It may be very late," he stammered.

"I'll wait until you come," she said simply, "no matter what time. I'llwait. But you'll surely come, Lloyd?"

He hesitated a moment and then, before the power of her eyes: "I'll surelycome," he promised, and a moment later he was gone.

Then the hours passed, anxious, ominous hours! Ten, eleven, twelve! Andstill Alice waited for her lover, silencing Mother Bonneton's grumblingswith a look that this hard old woman had once or twice seen in the girl'sface and had learned to respect. At half past twelve a carriage sounded inthe quiet street, then a quick step on the stairs. Kittredge had kept hisword.

The door was opened by Mother Bonneton, very sleepy and arrayed in awrapper of purple and gold pieced together from discarded altar coverings.She eyed the young man sternly but said nothing, for Alice was at her backholding the lamp and there was something in the American's face, somethinghalf reckless, half appealing, that startled her. She felt the cold breathof a sinister happening and regretted Bonneton's absence at the church.

He looked at her sharply. "I don't know what you mean by 'it,' but, as amatter of fact, _it_ hasn't begun yet. If you have any questions you'dbetter ask 'em."

Alice turned and said quietly: "Was the woman who came in the carriage theone you told us about?"

"Yes."

"Have you been with her ever since?"

"No. I was with her only about ten minutes."

"Is she in trouble?"

"Yes."

"And you?"

Kittredge nodded slowly. "Oh, I'm in trouble, all right."

"Can I help you?"

He shook his head. "The only way you can help is by believing in me. Ihaven't lied to you. I hadn't seen that woman for over six months. I didn'tknow she was coming here. I don't love her, I love you, but I did love her,and what I have done to-night I--I _had_ to do." He spoke with growingagitation which he tried vainly to control.

Alice looked at him steadily for a moment and then in a low voice she spokethe words that were pressing on her heart: "_What_ have you done?"

"There's no use going into that," he answered unsteadily. "I can only askyou to trust me."

"I trust you, Lloyd," she said.

While they were talking Mother Bonneton had gone to the window attracted bysounds from below, and as she peered down her face showed surprise andthen intense excitement.

"Kind saints!" she muttered. "The courtyard is full of policemen." Thenwith sudden understanding she exclaimed: "Perhaps we will know now what hehas been doing." As she spoke a heavy tread was heard on the stairs and themurmur of voices.

"It's nothing," said Alice weakly.

"Nothing?" mocked the old woman. "Hear that!"

An impatient hand sounded at the door while a harsh voice called out thoseterrifying words: "_Open in the name of the law_."

With a mingling of alarm and satisfaction Mother Bonneton obeyed thesummons, and a moment later, as she unlatched the door, a fat man with abristling red mustache and keen eyes pushed forward into the room where thelovers were waiting. Two burly policemen followed him.

"Ah!" exclaimed Gibelin with a gesture of relief as his eye fell onKittredge. Then producing a paper he said: "I am from headquarters. I amlooking for"--he studied the writing in perplexity--"for M. Lo-eedKeetredge. What is _your_ name?"

"That's it," replied the American, "you made a good stab at it."

"You are M. Lo-eed Keetredge?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must come with me. I have a warrant for your arrest." And he showedthe paper.

But Alice staggered forward. "Why do you arrest him? What has he done?"

"Take him," ordered the detective, and the two policemen laid hold ofKittredge on either side.

"Alice!" cried the young man, and his eyes yearned toward her. "Alice, I aminnocent."

"Come," said the men gruffly, and Kittredge felt a sickening sense of shameas he realized that he was a prisoner.

"Wait! One moment!" protested the girl, and the men paused. Then, goingclose to her lover, Alice spoke to him in low, thrilling words that camestraight from her soul:

"Lloyd, I believe you, I trust you, I love you. No matter what you havedone, I love you. It was because my love is so great that I refused youthis afternoon. But you need me now, you're in trouble now, and, Lloyd,if--if you want me still, I'm yours, all yours."

"O God!" murmured Kittredge, and even the hardened policeman choked alittle. "I'm the happiest man in Paris, but--" He could say no more exceptwith a last longing look: "Good-by."

Wildly, fiercely she threw her arms around his neck and kissed himpassionately on the mouth--their first kiss. And she murmured: "I love you,I love you."

Then they led Kittredge away.

[Illustration: "'Alice, I am innocent.'"]

CHAPTER V

COQUENIL GETS IN THE GAME

It was a long night at the Ansonia and a hard night for M. Gritz. France isa land of infinite red tape where even such simple things as getting bornor getting married lead to endless formalities. Judge, then, of thecomplicated procedure involved in so serious a matter as gettingmurdered--especially in a fashionable restaurant! Long before thecommissary had finished his report there arrived no less a person than M.Simon, the chief of police, round-faced and affable, a brisk, dapper manwhose ready smile had led more than one trusting criminal into regrettedconfidences.

And a little later came M. Hauteville, the judge in charge of the case, acold, severe figure, handsome in his younger days, but soured, it was said,by social disappointments and ill health. He was in evening dress, havingbeen summoned posthaste from the theater. Both of these officials went overthe case with the commissary and the doctor, both viewed the body andstudied its surroundings and, having formed a theory of the crime, bothproceeded to draw up a report. And the doctor drew up _his_ report. Andalready Gibelin (now at the prison with Kittredge) had made elaborate notesfor _his_ report. And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a scoreof reporters all busy with _their_ reports. No doubt that, in the matter ofpaper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of thisgallant billiard player!

Meantime the official police photographer and his assistants had arrived(this was long after midnight) with special apparatus for photographing thevictim and the scene of the crime. And their work occupied two full hoursowing largely to the difficult manipulation of a queer, clumsy camera thatphotographed the body _from above_ as it lay on the floor.

In the intervals of these formalities the officials discussed the case witha wide variance in opinions and conclusions. The chief of police and M.Pougeot were strong for the theory of murder, while M. Hauteville leanedtoward suicide. The doctor was undecided.

"But the shot was fired at the closest possible range," insisted the judge;"the pistol was not a foot from the man's head. Isn't that true, doctor?"

"Yes," replied Joubert, "the eyebrows are badly singed, the skin is burned,and the face shows unmistakable powder marks. I should say the pistol wasfired not six inches from the victim."

"Then it's suicide," declared the judge. "How else account for the facts?Martinez was a strong, active man. He would never have allowed a murdererto get so close to him without a struggle. But there is not the slightestsign of a struggle, no disorder in the room, no disarrangement of the man'sclothing. It's evidently suicide."

"Then the pistol must have fallen beside him or remained in his hand. Well,where is it?"

"Ask the woman who was here. How do you know she didn't take it?"

"Nonsense!" put in the chief. "Why should she take it? To throw suspicionon herself? Besides, I'll show you another reason why it's not suicide. Theman was shot through the right eye, the ball went in straight and clean,tearing its way to the brain. Well, in the whole history of suicides, thereis not one case where a man has shot himself in the eye. Did you ever hearof such a case, doctor?"

"Never," answered Joubert.

"A man will shoot himself in the mouth, in the temple, in the heart,anywhere, but not in the eye. There would be an unconquerable shrinkingfrom that. So I say it's murder."

The judge shook his head. "And the murderer?"

"Ah, that's another question. We must find the woman. And we mustunderstand the role of this American."

"There's better reason to argue that the American never did it," retortedthe judge.

"What reason?"

"The woman ran away, didn't she? And the American didn't. If he had killedthis man, do you think _anything_ would have brought him back here for thatcloak and bag?"

"A good point," nodded the chief. "We can't be sure of the murderer--yet,but we can be reasonably sure it's murder."

Still the judge was unconvinced. "If it's murder, how do you account forthe singed eyebrows? How did the murderer get so near?"

"I answer as you did: 'Ask the woman.' She knows."

"Ah, yes, she knows," reflected the commissary. "And, gentlemen, all ourtalk brings us back to this, _we must find that woman_."

At half past one Gibelin appeared to announce the arrest of Kittredge. Hehad tried vainly to get from the American some clew to the owner of cloakand bag, but the young man had refused to speak and, with sullenindifference, had allowed himself to be locked up in the big room at thedepot.

"I'll see what _I_ can squeeze out of him in the morning," said Hautevillegrimly. There was no judge in the _parquet_ who had his reputation forbreaking down the resistance of obstinate prisoners.

In the midst of these perplexities and technicalities a note was brought infor M. Pougeot. The commissary glanced at it quickly and then, with a wordof excuse, left the room, returning a few minutes later and whisperingearnestly to M. Simon.

"You say _he_ is here?" exclaimed the latter. "I thought he was sailingfor----"

A moment later Coquenil entered and all rose with cordial greetings, thatis, all except Gibelin, whose curt nod and suspicious glances showed thathe found anything but satisfaction in the presence of this formidablerival.

"My dear Coquenil!" said Simon warmly. "This is like the old days! If youwere only with us now what a nut there would be for you to crack!"

"So I hear," smiled M. Paul, "and--er--the fact is, I have come to helpyou crack it." He spoke with that quiet but confident seriousness whichalways carried conviction, and M. Simon and the judge, feeling the man'spower, waited his further words with growing interest; but Gibelin blinkedhis small eyes and muttered under his breath: "The cheek of the fellow!"

"As you know," explained Coquenil briefly, "I resigned from the force twoyears ago. I need not go into details; the point is, I now ask to be takenback. That is why I am here."

"But, my dear fellow," replied the chief in frank astonishment, "Iunderstood that you had received a magnificent offer with----"

"Yes, yes, I have."

"With a salary of a hundred thousand francs?"

"It's true, but--I have refused it."

Simon and Hauteville looked at Coquenil incredulously. How could a manrefuse a salary of a hundred thousand francs? The commissary watched hisfriend with admiration, Gibelin with envious hostility.

"May I ask _why_ you have refused it?" asked the chief.

"Partly for personal reasons, largely because I want to have a hand in thiscase."

Gibelin moved uneasily.

"You think this case so interesting?" put in the judge.

"The most interesting I have ever known," answered the other, and then headded with all the authority of his fine, grave face: "It's more thaninteresting, _it's the most important criminal case Paris has known forthree generations_."

M. Paul shook his head and replied impressively: "The billiard player was apawn in the game. He became troublesome and was sacrificed. He is of noimportance, but there's a greater game than billiards here with a masterplayer and--_I'm going to be in it_."

"Why do you think it's a great game?" questioned the judge.

"Why do I think anything? Why did I think a commonplace pickpocket at theBon Marche was a notorious criminal, wanted by two countries? Why did Ithink we should find the real clew to that Bordeaux counterfeiting gang ina Passy wine shop? Why did I think it necessary to-night to be _on_ the cabthis young American took and not _behind_ it in another cab?" He shot aquick glance at Gibelin. "Because a good detective _knows_ certain thingsbefore he can prove them and acts on his knowledge. That is whatdistinguishes him from an ordinary detective."

"Meaning me?" challenged Gibelin.

"Not at all," replied M. Paul smoothly. "I only say that----"

"One moment," interrupted M. Simon. "Do I understand that you were with thedriver who took this American away from here to-night?"

Coquenil smiled. "I was not _with_ the driver, I _was the driver_ and I hadthe honor of receiving five francs from my distinguished associate." Hebowed mockingly to Gibelin and held up a silver piece. "I shall keep thisamong my curiosities."

"Perhaps not," answered the other with aggravating politeness; "perhaps itwas a rather nice _coup_ leading to very important results."

"Huh! What results?"

"Yes. What results?" echoed the judge.

"Let me ask first," replied Coquenil deliberately, "what you regard as themost important thing to be known in this case just now?"

"The name of the woman," answered Hauteville promptly.

"_Parbleu!_" agreed the commissary.

"Then the man who gives you this woman's name and address will render areal service?"

"A service?" exclaimed Hauteville. "The whole case rests on this woman.Without her, nothing can be understood."

"So it would be a good piece of work," continued Coquenil, "if a man haddiscovered this name and address in the last few hours with nothing but hiswits to help him; in fact, with everything done to hinder him." He lookedmeaningly at Gibelin.

"Come, come," interrupted the chief, "what are you driving at?"

"At this, _I have the woman's name and address_."

"Impossible!" they cried.

"I got them by my own efforts and I will give them up _on my own terms_."He spoke with a look of fearless purpose that M. Simon well remembered fromthe old days.

"A thousand devils! How did you do it?" cried Simon.

"I watched the American in the cab as he leaned forward toward the lanternlight and I saw exactly what he was doing. He opened the lady's bag and cutout a leather flap that had her name and address stamped on it."

"No," contradicted Gibelin, "there was _no_ name in the bag. I examined itmyself."

"The name was on the _under side_ of the flap," laughed the other, "in giltletters."

Gibelin's heart sank.

"And you took this flap from the American?" asked M. Simon.

"No, no! Any violence would have brought my colleague into the thing, forhe was close behind, and I wanted this knowledge for myself."

"What did you do?" pursued the chief.

"I let the young man cut the flap into small pieces and drop them one byone as we drove through dark little streets. And I noted where he droppedthe pieces. Then I drove back and picked them up, that is, all but two."

"Marvelous!" muttered Hauteville.

"I had a small searchlight lantern to help me. That was one of the things Itook from my desk," he added to Pougeot.

"And these pieces of leather with the name and address, you have them?"continued the chief.

"I have them."

"With you?"

"Yes."

"May I see them?"

"Certainly. If you will promise to respect them as my personal property?"

Coquenil drew an envelope from his breast pocket and from it he took anumber of white-leather fragments. And he showed the chief that most ofthese fragments were stamped in gold letters or parts of letters.

"I'm satisfied," declared Simon after examining several of the fragmentsand returning them. "_Bon Dieu!_" he stormed at Gibelin. "And you had thatbag in your hands!"

Gibelin sat silent. This was the wretchedest moment in his career.

"Well," continued the chief, "we _must_ have these pieces of leather. Whatare your terms?"

"I told you," said Coquenil, "I want to be put back on the force. I want tohandle this case."

M. Simon thought a moment. "That ought to be easily arranged. I will seethe _prefet de police_ about it in the morning."

But the other demurred. "I ask you to see him to-night. It's ten minutes tohis house in an automobile. I'll wait here."

The chief smiled. "You're in a hurry, aren't you? Well, so are we. Will youcome with me, Hauteville?"

"If you like."

"And I'll go, if you don't mind," put in the commissary. "I may have someinfluence with the _prefet_."

"He won't refuse me," declared Simon. "After all, I am responsible for thepursuit of criminals in this city, and if I tell him that I absolutely needPaul Coquenil back on the force, as I do, he will sign the commission atonce. Come, gentlemen."

A moment later the three had hurried off, leaving Coquenil and Gibelintogether.

"There's no use being ugly about it," replied the other good-naturedly, ashe lighted a cigarette. His companion did the same and the two smoked insilence, Gibelin gnawing savagely at his little red mustache.

"See here," broke in the latter, "wouldn't you be ugly if somebody buttedinto a case that had been given to you?"

"Why," smiled Coquenil, "if he thought he could handle it better than Icould, I--I think I'd let him try."

"Do you imagine the _prefet de police_ is going to stand being pulled outof bed at three in the morning just because Paul Coquenil wants something?Well, I guess not."

"No? What do you think he'll do?" asked Coquenil.

"Do? He'll tell those men they are three idiots, that's what he'll do. Andyou'll never get your appointment. Bet you five louis you don't."

M. Paul shook his head. "I don't want your money."

"_Bon sang!_ You think the whole police department must bow down to you."

"It's not a case of bowing down to me, it's a case of _needing_ me."

"Huh!" snorted the other. "I'm going to walk around." He rose and movedtoward the door. Then he turned sharply: "Say, how much did you pay thatdriver?"

"Ten louis. It was cheap enough. He might have lost his place."

"You think it's a great joke on me because I paid you five francs? Don'tforget that it was raining and dark and you had that rubber cape pulled upover half your face, so it wasn't such a wonderful disguise."

"I didn't say it was."

"Anyhow, I'll get square with you," retorted the other, exasperated by M.Paul's good nature. "The best men make mistakes and _look out that youdon't make one_."

"If I do, I'll call on you for help."

"And _if_ you do, I'll take jolly good care that you don't get it," snarledthe other.

"Nonsense!" laughed Coquenil. "You're a good soldier, Gibelin; you like tokick and growl, but you do your work. Tell you what I'll do as soon as I'mput in charge of this case. Want to know what I'll do?"

"Well?"

"I'll have to set you to work on it. Ha, ha! Upon my soul, I will."

"You'd better look out," menaced the red-haired man with an ugly look, "orI'll do some work on this case you'll wish I hadn't done." With this heflung himself out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"What did he mean by that?" muttered M. Paul, and he sat silent, lost inthought, until the others returned. In a glance, he read the answer intheir faces.

"Precisely," answered the chief; "you are one of us again, and--I'm glad."

"Thank you, both of you," said M. Paul with a quiver of emotion.

"I give you full charge of this case," went on M. Simon, "and I will seethat you have every possible assistance. I expect you to be on deckto-morrow morning."

Coquenil hesitated a moment and then, with a flash of his tireless energy,he said: "If it's all the same to you, chief, I'll go on deckto-night--now."

CHAPTER VI

THE WEAPON

Right across from the Ansonia on the Rue Marboeuf was a little wine shopthat remained open all night for the accommodation of cab drivers andbelated pedestrians and to this Coquenil and the commissary now withdrew.Before anything else the detective wished to get from M. Pougeot hisimpressions of the case. And he asked Papa Tignol to come with them for afortifying glass.

"By the way," said the commissary to Tignol when they were seated in theback room, "did you find out how that woman left the hotel without herwraps and without being seen?"

The old man nodded. "When she came out of the telephone booth she slippedon a long black rain coat that was hanging there. It belonged to thetelephone girl and it's missing. The rain coat had a hood to it which thewoman pulled over her head. Then she walked out quietly and no one paid anyattention to her."

"Good work, Papa Tignol," approved Coquenil.

"It's you, M. Paul, who have done good work this night," chuckled Tignol."Eh! Eh! What a lesson for Gibelin!"

"The brute!" muttered Pougeot.

Then they turned to the commissary's report of his investigation, Coquenillistening with intense concentration, interrupting now and then with aquestion or to consult the rough plan drawn by Pougeot.

"Are you sure there is no exit from the banquet room and from these privaterooms except by the corridor?" he asked.

"They tell me not."

"So, if the murderer went out, he must have passed Joseph?"

"Yes."

"And the only persons who passed Joseph were the woman and this American?"

"Exactly."

"Too easy!" he muttered. "Too easy!"

"What do you mean?"

"That would put the guilt on one or the other of those two?"

"Apparently."

"And end the case?"

"Why--er----"

"Yes, it would. A case is ended when the murderer is discovered. Well, thiscase is _not_ ended, you can be sure of that. The murderer I am looking for_is not that kind of a murderer_. To begin with, he's not a fool. If hemade up his mind to shoot a man in a private room he would know _exactly_what he was doing and _exactly_ how he was going to escape."

"But the facts are there--I've given them to you," retorted the commissarya little nettled.

Coquenil shook his head.

"My dear Lucien, you have given me _some_ of the facts; before morning Ihope we'll have others and--hello!"

He stopped abruptly to look at a comical little man with a very largemouth, the owner of the place, who had been hovering about for some momentsas if anxious to say something.

"What is it, my friend?" asked Coquenil good-naturedly.

At this the proprietor coughed in embarrassment and motioned to a prim,thin-faced woman in the front room who came forward with fidgety shyness,begging the gentlemen to forgive her if she had done wrong, but there wassomething on her conscience and she couldn't sleep without telling it.

"Well?" broke in Pougeot impatiently, but Coquenil gave the woman areassuring look and she went on to explain that she was a spinster livingin a little attic room of the next house, overlooking the Rue Marboeuf. Sheworked as a seamstress all day in a hot, crowded _atelier_, and when shecame home at night she loved to go out on her balcony, especially thesefine summer evenings. She would stand there and brush her hair while shewatched the sunset deepen and the swallows circle over the chimney tops. Itwas an excellent thing for a woman's hair to brush it a long time everynight; she always brushed hers for half an hour--that was why it was sothick and glossy.

"But, my dear woman," smiled Coquenil, "what has that to do with me? I havevery little hair and no time to brush it."

The seamstress begged his pardon, the point was that on the previousevening, just as she had nearly finished brushing her hair, she suddenlyheard a sound like a pistol shot from across the street, and looking down,she saw a glittering object thrown from a window. She saw it distinctly andwatched where it fell beyond the high wall that separated the Ansonia Hotelfrom an adjoining courtyard. She had not thought much about it at themoment, but, having heard that something dreadful had happened----

Coquenil could contain himself no longer and, taking the woman's arm, hehurried her to the door.

"Now," he said, "show me just _where_ you saw this glittering object thrownover the wall."

"There," she replied, pointing, "it lies to the left of that heavy doorwayon the courtyard stones. I could see it from my balcony."

[Illustration: "'There it lies to the left of that heavy doorway.'"]

"Wait!" and, speaking to Tignol in a low tone, M. Paul gave him quickinstructions, whereupon the old man hurried across the street and pulledthe bell at the doorway indicated.

"Is he going to see what it was?" asked the spinster eagerly.

"Yes, he is going to see what it was," and at that moment the door swungopen and Papa Tignol disappeared within.

"Did you happen to see the person who threw this thing?" continued M. Paulgently.

"No, but I saw his arm."

Coquenil gave a start of satisfaction. "His arm? Then a man threw it?"

"Do you remember the window from which he threw this object?" The detectivelooked at her anxiously.

"Yes, indeed, it is easy to remember; it's the end window, on the firstfloor of the hotel. There!"

Coquenil felt a thrill of excitement, for, unless he had misunderstood thecommissary's diagram, the seamstress was pointing not to private roomNumber Six, _but to private room Number Seven!_

"Lucien!" he called, and, taking his friend aside, he asked: "Does that endwindow on the first floor belong to Number Six or Number Seven?"

"Number Seven."

"And the window next to it?"

"Number Six."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Thanks. Just a moment," and he rejoined the seamstress.

"You are giving us great assistance," he said to her politely. "I shallspeak of you to the chief."

"Oh, sir," she murmured in confusion.

"But one point is not quite clear. Just look across again. You see twoopen windows, the end window and the one next to it. Isn't it possible thatthis bright thing was thrown from the window _next_ to the end one?"

"No, no."

"They are both alike and, both being open, one might easily make amistake."

She shook her head positively. "I have made no mistake, _it was the endwindow_."

Just then Coquenil heard the click of the door opposite and, looking over,he saw Papa Tignol beckoning to him.

"Good! Papa Tignol, I want you to stay here until I come back. Things aremarching along."

Again he rejoined the seamstress and, with his serious, friendly air, hebegan: "And you still think that shining object was thrown from the_second_ window?"

"No, no! How stupid you are!" And then in confusion: "I beg a thousandpardons, I am nervous. I thought I told you plainly it was the end window."

"Thanks, my good woman," replied M. Paul. "Now go right back to your roomand don't breathe a word of this to anyone."

"But," she stammered, "would monsieur be so kind as to say what the brightobject was?"

The detective bent nearer and whispered mysteriously: "It was a comb, asilver comb!"

"_Mon Dieu!_ A silver comb!" exclaimed the unsuspecting spinster.

"Now back to your room and finish brushing your hair," he urged, and thewoman hurried away trembling with excitement.

A few moments later Coquenil and the commissary and Papa Tignol werestanding in the courtyard near two green tubs of foliage plants betweenwhich the pistol had fallen. The doorkeeper of the house, a crabbedindividual who had only become mildly respectful when he learned that hewas dealing with the police, had joined them, his crustiness tempered bycuriosity.

"See here," said the detective, addressing him, "do you want to earn fivefrancs?" The doorkeeper brightened. "I'll make it ten", continued theother, "if you do exactly what I say. You are to take a cab, here is themoney, and drive to Notre-Dame. At the right of the church is a high ironrailing around the archbishop's house. In the railing is an iron gate witha night bell for Extreme Unction. Ring this bell and ask to see thesacristan Bonneton, and when he comes out give him this." Coquenil wrotehastily on a card. "It's an order to let you have a dog named Caesar--mydog--he's guarding the church with Bonneton. Pat Caesar and tell him he'sgoing to see M. Paul, that's me. Tell him to jump in the cab and keepstill. He'll understand--he knows more than most men. Then drive back hereas quick as you can."

The doorkeeper touched his cap and departed.

Coquenil turned to Tignol. "Watch the pistol. When the doorkeeper comesback send him over to the hotel. I'll be there."

"Right," nodded the old man.

Then the detective said to Pougeot: "I must talk to Gritz. You know him,don't you?"

The commissary glanced at his watch. "Yes, but do you realize it's afterthree o'clock?"

"Never mind, I must see him. A lot depends on it. Get him out of bed forme, Lucien, and--then you can go home."

"I'll try," grumbled the other, "but what in Heaven's name are you going todo with that dog?"

"_Use him,_" answered Coquenil.

CHAPTER VII

THE FOOTPRINTS

One of the great lessons Coquenil had learned in his long experience withmysterious crimes was to be careful of hastily rejecting any evidencebecause it conflicted with some preconceived theory. It would have beeneasy now, for instance, to assume that this prim spinster was mistaken indeclaring that she had seen the pistol thrown from the window of NumberSeven. That, of course, seemed most unlikely, since the shooting was donein Number Six, yet how account for the woman's positiveness? She seemed atruthful, well-meaning person, and the murderer _might_ have gone intoNumber Seven after committing the crime. It was evidently important to getas much light as possible on this point. Hence the need of M. Gritz.

M. Herman Gritz was a short, massive man with hard, puffy eyes and thinblack hair, rather curly and oily, and a rapacious nose. He appeared(having been induced to come down by the commissary) in a richlyembroidered blue-silk house garment, and his efforts at affability wereobviously based on apprehension.

Coquenil began at once with questions about private room Number Seven. Wehad reserved this room and what had prevented the person from occupying it?M. Gritz replied that Number Seven had been engaged some days before by anold client, who, at the last moment, had sent a _petit bleu_ to say that hehad changed his plans and would not require the room. The _petit bleu_ didnot arrive until after the crime was discovered, so the room remainedempty. More than that, the door was locked.

"Locked on the outside?"

"Yes."

"With the key in the lock?"

"Yes."

"Then anyone coming along the corridor might have turned the key andentered Number Seven?"

"It is possible," admitted M. Gritz, "but very improbable. The room wasdark, and an ordinary person seeing a door locked and a room dark----"

"We are not talking about an ordinary person," retorted the detective, "weare talking about a murderer. Come, we must look into this," and he led theway down the corridor, nodding to the policeman outside Number Six andstopping at the next door, the last in the line, the door to Number Seven.

"You know I haven't been in _there_ yet." He glanced toward the adjoiningroom of the tragedy, then, turning the key in Number Seven, he tried toopen the door.

"Hello! It's locked on the inside, too!"

"_Tiens!_ You're right," said Gritz, and he rumpled his scanty locks inperplexity.

"Some one has been inside, some one may be inside now."

The proprietor shook his head and, rather reluctantly, went on to explainthat Number Seven was different from the other private rooms in this, thatit had a separate exit with separate stairs leading to an alleyway betweenthe hotel and a wall surrounding it. A few habitues knew of this exit andused it occasionally for greater privacy. The alleyway led to a gate in thewall opening on the Rue Marboeuf, so a particularly discreet couple, let ussay, could drive up to this gate, pass through the alleyway, and then, bythe private stairs, enter Number Seven without being seen by anyone,assuming, of course, that they had a key to the alleyway door. And theycould leave the restaurant in the same unobserved manner.

As Coquenil listened, his mouth drew into an ominous thin line and his deepeyes burned angrily.

"M. Gritz," he said in a cold, cutting voice, "you are a man ofintelligence, you must be. This crime was committed last night about nineo'clock; it's now half past three in the morning. Will you please tell mehow it happens that this fact _of vital importance_ has been concealed fromthe police for over six hours?"

"Why," stammered the other, "I--I don't know."

"Are you trying to shield some one? Who is this man that engaged NumberSeven?"

Gritz shook his head unhappily. "I don't know his name."

"You don't know his name?" thundered Coquenil.

"We have to be discreet in these matters," reasoned the other. "We havemany clients who do not give us their names, they have their own reasonsfor that; some of them are married, and, as a man of the world, _I_ respecttheir reserve." M. Gritz prided himself on being a man of the world. He hadstarted as a penniless Swiss waiter and had reached the magnificent pointwhere broken-down aristocrats were willing to owe him money and sometimesborrow it--and he appreciated the honor.

"But what do you call him?" persisted Coquenil. "You must call himsomething."

"In speaking to him we call him 'monsieur'; in speaking of him we call him'_the tall blonde_.'"

"The tall blonde!" repeated M. Paul.

"Exactly. He has been here several times with a woman he calls Anita.That's all I know about it. Anyway, what difference does it make since hedidn't come to-night?"

"How do you know he didn't come? He had a key to the alleyway door, didn'the?"

"Yes, but I tell you he sent a _petit bleu_."

The detective shrugged his shoulders. "_Some one_ has been here and lockedthis door on the inside. I want it opened."

"Just a moment," trembled Gritz. "I have a pass key to the alleyway door.We'll go around."

"Make haste, then," and they started briskly through the halls, theproprietor assuring M. Paul that only a single key was ever given out forthe alleyway door and this to none but trusted clients, who returned it thesame night.

"Only a single key to the alleyway door," reflected, Coquenil.

"Yes."

"And your 'tall blonde' has it now?"

"I suppose so."

They left the hotel by the main entrance, and were just going around intoRue Marboeuf when the _concierge_ from across the way met them with wordthat Caesar had arrived.

"Caesar?" questioned Gritz.

"He's my dog. Ph-h-eet! Ph-h-eet! Ah, here he is!" and out of the shadowsthe splendid animal came bounding. At his master's call he had made amighty plunge and broken away from Papa Tignol's hold.

"Good old fellow!" murmured M. Paul, holding the dog's eager head with histwo hands. "I have work for you, sir, to-night. Ah, he knows! See his eyes!Look at that tail! We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?"

And the dog answered with delighted leaps.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked the proprietor.

"Make a little experiment. Do you mind waiting a couple of minutes? It_may_ give us a line on this visitor to Number Seven."

"I'll wait," said Gritz.

"Come over here," continued the other. "I'll show you a pistol connectedwith this case. And I'll show it to the dog."

"For the scent? You don't think a dog can follow the scent from a pistol,do you?" asked the proprietor incredulously.

"I don't know. _This_ dog has done wonderful things. He tracked a murdereronce three miles across rough country near Liege and found him hidden in abarn. But he had better conditions there. We'll see."

They had entered the courtyard now and Coquenil led Caesar to the spotwhere the weapon lay still undisturbed.

"_Cherche!_" he ordered, and the dog nosed the pistol with concentratedeffort. Then silently, anxiously, one would say, he darted away, circlingthe courtyard back and forth, sniffing the ground as he went, pausingoccasionally or retracing his steps and presently stopping before M. Paulwith a little bark of disappointment.

In an instant Caesar was out in the Rue Marboeuf, circling again and againin larger and larger arcs, as he had been taught, back and forth, until hehad covered a certain length of street and sidewalk, every foot of thespace between opposite walls, then moving on for another length and thenfor another, looking up at his master now and then for a word ofencouragement.

[Illustration: "'_Cherche!_' he ordered."]

"It's a hard test," muttered Coquenil. "Footprints and weapons have lainfor hours in a drenching rain, but--Ah!" Caesar had stopped with a littlewhine and was half crouching at the edge of the sidewalk, head low, eyesfiercely forward, body quivering with excitement. "He's found something!"

The dog turned with quick, joyous barks.

"He's got the scent. Now _watch_ him," and sharply he gave the word:"_Va!_"

Straight across the pavement darted Caesar, then along the oppositesidewalk _away_ from the Champs Elysees, running easily, nose down, pastthe Rue Francois Premier, past the Rue Clement-Marot, then out into thestreet again and stopping suddenly.

"He's lost it," mourned Papa Tignol.

"Lost it? Of course he's lost it," triumphed the detective. And turning toM. Gritz: "There's where your murderer picked up a cab. It's perfectlyclear. No one has touched that pistol since the man who used it threw itfrom the window of Number Seven."

"You mean Number Six," corrected Gritz.

"I mean Number Seven. We know where the murderer took a cab, now we'll seewhere he left the hotel." And hurrying toward his dog, he called: "Back,Caesar!"

Obediently the dog trotted back along the trail, recrossing the streetwhere he had crossed it before, and presently reaching the point where hehad first caught the scent. Here he stopped, waiting for orders, eying M.Paul with almost speaking intelligence.

Evidently Caesar did not think this the moment for sentiment; he growledimpatiently, straining toward the scent.

"He knows there's work to be done and he's right." Then quickly he gave theword again and once more Caesar was away, darting back along the sidewalk_toward_ the Champs Elysees, moving nearer and nearer to the houses andpresently stopping at a gateway, against which he pressed and whined. Itwas a gateway in the wall surrounding the Ansonia Hotel.

"The man came out here," declared Coquenil, and, unlatching the gate, helooked inside, the dog pushing after him.

"Down Caesar!" ordered M. Paul, and unwillingly the ardent creaturecrouched at his feet.

The wall surrounding the Ansonia was of polished granite about six feethigh, and between this wall and the hotel itself was a space of equal widthplanted with slim fir trees that stood out in decorative dignity againstthe gray stone.

"This is what you call the alleyway?" questioned Coquenil.

"Exactly."

From the pocket of his coat the detective drew a small electric lantern,the one that had served him so well earlier in the evening, and, touching aswitch, he threw upon the ground a strong white ray; whereupon a confusionof footprints became visible, as if a number of persons had trod back andforth here.

"_Bon Dieu!_ What a pity! We can never get a clean print in this mess. Butwait! How far along the alleyway did you look?"

"As far as that back wall. Poor Gibelin! He never thought of looking on theother side of it. Eh, eh!"

Coquenil breathed more freely. "We may be all right yet. Ah, yes," hecried, going quickly to this back wall where the alleyway turned to theright along the rear of the hotel. Again he threw his white light beforehim and, with a start of satisfaction, pointed to the ground. There,clearly marked, was a line of footprints, _a single line_, with no breaksor imperfections, the plain record on the rain-soaked earth that oneperson, evidently a man, had passed this way, _going out_.

"I'll send the dog first," said M. Paul. "Here, Caesar! _Cherche!_"

Once more the eager animal sprang forward, following slowly along the rowof trees where the trail was confused, and then, at the corner, dashingahead swiftly, only to stop again after a few yards and stand scratchinguneasily at a closed door.

"That settles it," said Coquenil. "He has brought us to the alleyway door.Am I right?"

"Yes," nodded Gritz.

"The door that leads to Number Seven?"

"Yes."

"Open it," and, while the agitated proprietor searched for his pass key,the detective spoke to Tignol: "I want impressions of these footprints, the_best_ you can take. Use glycerin with plaster of Paris for the molds. Take_this_ one and these two and _this_ and _this_. Understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Leave Caesar here while you go for what you need. Down, Caesar! _Garde!_"

The dog growled and went on guard forthwith.

"Now, we'll have a look inside."

The alleyway door stood open and, using his lantern with the utmost care,Coquenil went first, mounting the stairs slowly, followed by Gritz. At thetop they came to a narrow landing and a closed door.

"Except that this door into the corridor is bolted. It didn't bolt itself,did it?"

"No," sighed the other.

Coquenil thought a moment, then he produced the pistol found in thecourtyard and examined it with extreme care, then he unlocked the corridordoor and looked out. The policeman was still on guard before Number Six.

"I shall want to go in there shortly," said the detective. The policemansaluted wearily.

"Excuse me," ventured M. Gritz, "have you still much to do?"

"Yes," said the other dryly.

"It's nearly four and--I suppose you are used to this sort of thing, butI'm knocked out, I--I'd like to go to bed."

"By all means, my dear sir. I shall get on all right now if--oh, they tellme you make wonderful Turkish coffee here. Do you suppose I could havesome?"

"Of course you can. I'll send it at once."

"You'll earn my lasting gratitude."

Gritz hesitated a moment and then, with an apprehensive look in his beadyeyes, he said: "So you're going in _there?_" and he jerked his fat thumbtoward the wall separating them from Number Six.

Coquenil nodded.

"To see if the ball from _that_," he looked with a shiver at the pistol,"fits in--in _that?_" Again he jerked his thumb toward the wall, beyondwhich the body lay.

"No, that is the doctor's business. _Mine is more important_. Good night!"

"Good night," answered Gritz and he waddled away down the corridor in hisblue-silk garments, wagging his heavy head and muttering to himself: "Moreimportant than _that! Mon Dieu!_"

CHAPTER VIII

THROUGH THE WALL

Coquenil's examination of the pistol showed that it was a weapon of goodmake and that only a single shot had been fired from it; also that thisshot had been fired within a few hours. Which, with the evidence of theseamstress and the dog, gave a strong probability that the instrument ofthe crime had been found. If the ball in the body corresponded with ballsstill in the pistol, this probability would become a practical certainty.And yet, the detective knit his brows. Suppose it was established beyond adoubt that this pistol killed the billiard player, there still remained thequestion _how_ the shooting was accomplished. The murderer was in NumberSeven, he could not and did not go into the corridor, for the corridor doorwas locked. But the billiard player was in Number Six, he was shot inNumber Six, and he died in Number Six. How were these two facts to bereconciled? The seamstress's testimony alone might be put aside but not thedog's testimony. _The murderer certainly remained in Number Seven_.

Holding this conviction, the detective entered the room of the tragedy andturned up the lights, all of them, so that he might see whatever was to beseen. He walked back and forth examining the carpet, examining the walls,examining the furniture, but paying little heed to the body. He went to theopen window and looked out, he went to the yellow sofa and sat down,finally he shut off the lights and withdrew softly, closing the door behindhim. It was just as the commissary had said _with the exception of onething_.

When he returned to Number Seven, M. Paul found that Gritz had kept hispromise and sent him a pot of fragrant Turkish coffee, steaming hot, and abox of the choicest Egyptian cigarettes. Ah, that was kind! This wassomething like it! And, piling up cushions in the sofa corner, Coquenilsettled back comfortably to think and dream. This was the time he lovedbest, these precious silent hours when the city slept and his mind becamemost active--this was the time when chiefly he received those flashes ofinspiration or intuition that had so often and so wonderfully guided him.

For half an hour or so the detective smoked continuously and sipped thepowdered delight of Stamboul, his gaze moving about the room in friendlyscrutiny as if he would, by patience and good nature, persuade the wallsor, chairs to give up their secret. Presently he took off his glasses and,leaning farther back against the cushions, closed his eyes in pleasantmeditation. Or was it a brief snatch of sleep? Whichever it was, a discreetknock at the corridor door shortly ended it, and Papa Tignol entered to saythat he had finished the footprint molds.

M. Paul roused himself with an effort and, sitting up, his elbow restingagainst the sofa back, motioned his associate to a chair.

"By the way," he asked, "what do you think of _that?_" He pointed to aJapanese print in a black frame that hung near the massive sideboard.

Coquenil laughed at this candid judgment. "All the same, it has a bearingon our investigations."

"_Diable!_"

M. Paul reached for his glasses, rubbed them deliberately and put them on."Papa Tignol," he said seriously, "I have come to a conclusion about thiscrime, but I haven't verified it. I am now going to give myself anintellectual treat."

"You understand that we are in private room Number Seven, don't you? On theother side of that wall is private room Number Six where a man has justbeen shot. We know that, don't we? But the man who shot him was in _this_room, the little hair-brushing old maid saw the pistol thrown from _this_window, the dog found footprints coming from _this_ room, the murderer wentout through _that_ door into the alleyway and then into the street. Hecouldn't have gone into the corridor because the door was locked on theoutside."

"He might have gone into the corridor and locked the door after him,"objected Tignol.

Coquenil shook his head. "He could have locked the door after him on theoutside, not on the inside; but when we came in here, _it was locked on theinside_. No, sir, that door to the corridor has not been used thisevening. The murderer bolted it on the inside when he entered from thealleyway and it wasn't unbolted until I unbolted it myself."

"Then how, in Heaven's name----"

"Exactly! How could a man in this room kill a man in the next room? That isthe problem I have been working at for an hour. And I believe I have solvedit. Listen. Between these rooms is a solid wooden partition with no door init--no passageway of any kind. Yet the man in there is dead, we're sure ofthat. The pistol was here, the bullet went there--somehow. _How_ did it gothere? _Think_."

The detective paused and looked fixedly at the wall near the heavysideboard. Tignol, half fascinated, stared at the same spot, and then, as anew idea took form in his brain, he blurted out: "You mean it went _throughthe wall?_"

"Is there any other way?"

The old man laid a perplexed forefinger along his illuminated nose. "Butthere is no hole--through the wall," he muttered.

"There is either a hole or a miracle. And between the two, I conclude thatthere _is_ a hole which we haven't found yet."

"It might be back of that sideboard," ventured the other doubtfully.

But M. Paul disagreed. "No man as clever as this fellow would have moved aheavy piece covered with plates and glasses. Besides, if the sideboard hadbeen moved, there would be marks on the floor and there are none. Now youunderstand why I'm interested in that Japanese print."

Tignol sprang to his feet, then checked himself with a half-ashamed smile.

"You're mocking me, you've looked behind the picture."

Coquenil shook his head solemnly. "On my honor, I have not been near thepicture, I know nothing about the picture, but unless there is some flaw inmy reasoning----"

"I'll give my tongue to the cats to eat!" burst out the other, "if ever Isaw a man lie on a sofa and blow blue circles in the air and spin prettytheories about what is back of a picture when----"

"When what?"

"When all he had to do for proof was to reach over and--and lift the darnthing off its nail."

Coquenil smiled. "I've thought of that," he drawled, "but I like thesuspense. Half the charm of life is in suspense, Papa Tignol. However, youhave a practical mind, so go ahead, lift it off."

The old man did not wait for a second bidding, he stepped forward quicklyand took down the picture.

"_Tonnere de Dieu!_" he cried. "It's true! There are _two_ holes."

Sure enough, against the white wall stood out not one but two black holesabout an inch in diameter and something less than three inches apart.Around the left hole, which was close to the sideboard, were black dotssprinkled over the painted woodwork like grains of pepper.

"Powder marks!" muttered Coquenil, examining the hole. "He fired at closerange as Martinez looked into this room from the other side. Poor chap!That's how he was shot in the eye." And producing a magnifying glass, thedetective made a long and careful examination of the holes while PapaTignol watched him with unqualified disgust.

"Asses! Idiots! That's what we are," muttered the old man. "For half anhour we were in that room, Gibelin and I, and we never found those holes."

"They were covered by the sofa hangings."

"I know, we shook those hangings, we pressed against them, we dideverything but look behind them. See here, did _you_ look behind them?"

"No, but I saw something on the floor that gave me an idea."

"Ah, what was that?"

"Some yellowish dust. I picked up a little of it. There." He unfolded apaper and showed a few grains of coarse brownish powder. "You see there areonly board partitions between these rooms, the boards are about an inchthick, so a sharp auger would make the holes quickly. But there would bedust and chips."

"Of course."

"Well, this is some of the dust. The woman probably threw the chips out ofthe window."

"Undoubtedly. The spirals from the auger blade inside the holes showplainly that the boring was done _from_ Number Six _toward_ Number Seven.Take the glass and see for yourself."

Tignol took the glass and studied the hole. Then he turned, shaking hishead. "You're a fine detective, M. Paul, but I was a carpenter for sixyears before I went on the force and I know more about auger holes than youdo. I say you can't be sure which side of the wall this hole was boredfrom. You talk about spirals, but there's no sense in that. They're thesame either way. You _might_ tell by the chipping, but this is hard woodcovered with thick enamel, so there's apt to be no chipping. Anyhow,there's none here. We'll see on the other side."

"All right, we'll see," consented Coquenil, and they went around intoNumber Six.

The old man drew back the sofa hangings and exposed two holes exactly likethe others--in fact, the same holes. "You see," he went on, "the edges areclean, without a sign of chipping. There is no more reason to say thatthese holes were bored this side than from that."

M. Paul made no reply, but going to the sofa he knelt down by it, and usinghis glass, proceeded to go over its surface with infinite care.

"Turn up all the lights," he said. "That's better," and he continued hissearch. "Ah!" he cried presently. "You think there is no reason to say theholes were bored from this side. I'll give you a reason. Take this piece ofwhite paper and make me prints of his boot heels." He pointed to the body."Take the whole heel carefully, then the other one, get the nail marks,everything. That's right. Now cut out the prints. Good! Now look here.Kneel down. Take the glass. There on the yellow satin, by the tail of thatsilver bird. Do you see? Now compare the heel prints."

Papa Tignol knelt down as directed and examined the sofa seat, which wascovered with a piece of Chinese embroidery.

"_Sapristi!_ You're a magician!" he cried in great excitement.

"No," replied Coquenil, "it's perfectly simple. These holes in the wall arefive feet above the floor. And I'm enough of a carpenter, Papa Tignol," hesmiled, "to know that a man cannot work an auger at that height withoutstanding on something. And here was the very thing for him to stand on, asofa just in place. So, _if_ Martinez bored these holes, he stood on thissofa to do it, and, in that case, the marks of his heels must have remainedon the delicate satin. And here they are."

Coquenil's face darkened. "Ah, that's the question. We'll know that when wetalk to the woman."

The old man leaned forward eagerly: "_Why do you think the woman helpedhim?_"

"_Somebody_ helped him or the chips would still be there, _somebody_ heldback those hangings while he worked the auger, and somebody carried theauger away."

Tignol pondered this, a moment, then, his face brightening: "Hah! I see!The sofa hangings were held back when the shot came, then they fell intoplace and covered the holes?"

"That's it," replied the detective absently.

"And the man in Number Seven, the murderer, lifted that picture from itsnail before shooting and then put it back on the nail after shooting?"

"Yes, yes," agreed M. Paul. Already he was far away on a new line ofthought, while the other was still grappling with his first surprise.

"Then this murderer must have _known_ that the billiard player was going tobore these holes," went on Papa Tignol half to himself. "He must have beenwaiting in Number Seven, he must have stood there with his pistol readywhile the holes were coming through, he must have let Martinez finish onehole and then bore the other, he must have kept Number Seven dark so theycouldn't see him----"

"He bored _this_ hole first," said Coquenil rapidly, "it's the right-handone when you're in this room, the left-hand one when you're in NumberSeven. As you say, the murderer looked through the first hole while hewaited for the second to be bored; so, naturally, he fired through the holewhere his eye was. _That was his first great mistake_."

Tignol screwed up his face in perplexity. "What difference does it makewhich hole the man fired through so long as he shot straight and got away?"

"What difference? Just this difference, that, by firing through theleft-hand hole, he has given us precious evidence, against him."

"How?"

"Come back into the other room and I'll show you." And, when they hadreturned to Number Seven, he continued: "Take the pistol. Pretend you arethe murderer. You've been waiting your moment, holding your breath on oneside of the wall while the auger grinds through from the other. The firsthole is finished. You see the point of the auger as it comes through thesecond, now the wood breaks and a length of turning steel shoves towardyou. You grip your pistol and look through the left-hand hole, you see thewoman holding back the curtains, you see Martinez draw out the auger fromthe right-hand hole and lay it down. Now he leans forward, pressing hisface to the completed eyeholes, you see the whites of his eyes, not threeinches away. Quick! Pistol up! Ready to fire! No, no, through the_left-hand_ hole where _he_ fired."

"Because it's too near the sideboard. I can't get my eye there to sightalong the pistol barrel."

"You mean your right eye?"

"Of course."

"Could you get your left eye there?"

"Yes, but if I aimed with my left eye I'd have to fire with my left handand I couldn't hit a cow that way."

Coquenil looked at Tignol steadily. "_You could if you were a left-handedman_."

"You mean to say--" The other stared.

"I mean to say that _this_ man, at a critical moment, fired through thatawkward hole near the sideboard when he might just as well have firedthrough the other hole away from the sideboard. Which shows that it was aneasy and natural thing for him to do, consequently----"

"Consequently," exulted the old man, "we've got to look for a left-handedmurderer, is that it?"

"What do _you_ think?" smiled the detective.

Papa Tignol paused, and then, bobbing his head in comical seriousness: "Ithink, if I were this man, I'd sooner have the devil after me than PaulCoquenil."

CHAPTER IX

COQUENIL MARKS HIS MAN

It was nearly four o'clock when Coquenil left the Ansonia and started upthe Champs Elysees, breathing deep of the early morning air. The night wasstill dark, although day was breaking in the east. And what a night it hadbeen! How much had happened since he walked with his dog to Notre-Dame theevening before! Here was the whole course of his life changed, yes, and hisprospects put in jeopardy by this extraordinary decision. How could heexplain what he had done to his wise old mother? How could he unsay allthat he had said to her a few days before when he had shown her that thistrip to Brazil was quite for the best and bade her a fond farewell? Couldhe explain it to anyone, even to himself? Did he honestly believe all theplausible things he had said to Pougeot and the others about this crime?Was it really the wonderful affair he had made out? After all, what had heacted on? A girl's dream and an odd coincidence. Was that enough? Was thatenough to make a man alter his whole life and face extraordinary danger?_Was it enough?_

Extraordinary danger! _Why_ did this sense of imminent peril haunt him andfascinate him? What was there in this crime that made it different frommany other crimes on which he had been engaged? Those holes through thewall? Well, yes, he had never seen anything quite like that. And thebilliard player's motive in boring the holes and the woman's role and theintricacy and ingenuity of the murderer's plan--all these offered anextraordinary problem. And it certainly was strange that thiscandle-selling girl with the dreams and the purplish eyes had appearedagain as the suspected American's sweetheart! He had heard this from PapaTignol, and how Alice had stood ready to brave everything for her loverwhen Gibelin marched him off to prison. Poor Gibelin!

So Coquenil's thoughts ran along as he neared the Place de l'Etoile. Well,it was too late to draw back. He had made his decision and he must abide byit, his commission was signed, his duty lay before him. By nine o'clock hemust be at the Palais de Justice to report to Hauteville. No use goinghome. Better have a rubdown and a cold plunge at the _haman_, then a turnon the mat with the professional wrestler, and then a few hours sleep. Thatwould put him in shape for the day's work with its main business of runningdown this woman in the case, this lady of the cloak and leather bag, whosename and address he fortunately had. Ah, he looked forward to his interviewwith her! And he must prepare for it!

Coquenil was just glancing about for a cab to the Turkish bath place, infact he was signaling one that he saw jogging up the Avenue de la GrandeArmee, when he became aware that a gentleman was approaching him with theintention of speaking. Turning quickly, he saw in the uncertain light a manof medium height with a dark beard tinged with gray, wearing a loose blackcape overcoat and a silk hat. The stranger saluted politely and said with aslight foreign accent: "How are you, M. Louis? I have been expecting you."

The words were simple enough, yet they contained a double surprise forCoquenil. He was at a loss to understand how he could have been expectedhere where he had come by the merest accident, and, certainly, this was thefirst time in twenty years that anyone, except his mother, had addressedhim as Louis. He had been christened Louis Paul, but long ago he haddropped the former name, and his most intimate friends knew him only asPaul Coquenil.

"How do you know that my name is Louis?" answered the detective with asharp glance.

"I know a great deal about you," answered the other, and then withsignificant emphasis: "_I know that you are interested in dreams_. May Iwalk along with you?"

"You may," said Coquenil, and at once his keen mind was absorbed in thisnew problem. Instinctively he felt that something momentous was preparing.

"As you like," answered the other carelessly. "Then the person I represent_wishes you to withdraw from this case_."

The message was preposterous, the manner of its delivery fantastic, yetthere was something vaguely formidable in the stranger's tone, as if agreat person had spoken, one absolutely sure of himself and of his power tocommand.

"Naturally," retorted Coquenil.

"Why do you say naturally?"

"It's natural for a criminal to wish that an effort against him shouldcease. Tell your friend or employer that I am only mildly interested in hiswishes."

He spoke with deliberate hostility, but the dark-bearded man answered,quite unruffled: "Ah, I may be able to heighten your interest."

"Come, come, sir, my time is valuable."

The stranger drew from his coat pocket a large thick envelope fastenedwith an elastic band and handed it to the detective. "Whatever your time isworth," he said in a rasping voice, "I will pay for it. Please look atthis."

Coquenil's curiosity was stirred. Here was no commonplace encounter, atleast it was a departure from ordinary criminal methods. Who was thissupercilious man? How dared he come on such an errand to him, PaulCoquenil? What desperate purpose lurked behind his self-confident mask?Could it be that he knew the assassin or--or _was he the assassin?_

Wondering thus, M. Paul opened the tendered envelope and saw that itcontained a bundle of thousand-franc notes.

"There is a large sum here," he remarked.

"Fifty thousand francs. It's for you, and as much more will be handed youthe day you sail for Brazil. Just a moment--let me finish. This sum is abonus in addition to the salary already fixed. And, remember, you have alife position there with a brilliant chance of fame. That is what you careabout, I take it--fame; it is for fame you want to follow up this crime."

Coquenil snapped his fingers. "I don't care _that_ for fame. I'm going towork out this case for the sheer joy of doing it."

"You will _never_ work out this case!" The man spoke so sternly and withsuch a menacing ring in his voice that M. Paul felt a chill ofapprehension.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you will not be allowed to; it's doubtful if you _could_ work itout, but there's a chance that you could and we don't purpose to take thatchance. You're a free agent, you can persist in this course, but if youdo----"

He paused as if to check too vehement an utterance, and M. Paul caught athreatening gleam in his eyes that he long remembered.

"Why?"

"If you do, you will be thwarted at every turn, you will be made to sufferin ways you do not dream of, through those who are dear to you, throughyour dog, through your mother----"

"You dare--" cried Coquenil.

"We dare _anything_," flashed the stranger. "I'm daring something now, am Inot? Don't you suppose I know what you are thinking? Well, I take the riskbecause--_because you are intelligent_."

There was something almost captivating in the very arrogance andrecklessness of this audacious stranger. Never in all his experience hadCoquenil known a criminal or a person directly associated with crime, asthis man must be, to boldly confront the powers of justice. Undoubtedly,the fellow realized his danger, yet he deliberately faced it. What plancould he have for getting away once his message was delivered? It must bepractically delivered already, there was nothing more to say, he hadoffered a bribe and made a threat. A few words now for the answer, therefusal, the defiance, and--then what? Surely this brusque individual didnot imagine that he, Coquenil, would be simple enough to let him go nowthat he had him in his power? But wait! Was that true, _was_ this man inhis power?

As if answering the thought, the stranger said: "It is hopeless for you tostruggle against our knowledge and our resources, quite hopeless. We have,for example, the _fullest_ information about you and your life down to thesmallest detail."

"Yes?" answered Coquenil, and a twinkle of humor shone in his eyes. "What'sthe name of my old servant?"

"Melanie."

"What's the name of the canary bird I gave her last week?"

"It isn't a canary bird, it's a bullfinch. And its name is Pete."

"Not bad, not at all bad," muttered the other, and the twinkle in his eyesfaded.

"We know the important things, too, all that concerns you, from your_forced resignation_ two years ago down to your talk yesterday with thegirl at Notre-Dame. So how can you fight us? How can you shadow people whoshadow you? Who watch your actions from day to day, from hour to hour? Whoknow _exactly_ the moment when you are weak and unprepared, as I know nowthat you are unarmed _because you left that pistol with Papa Tignol_."

For a moment Coquenil was silent, and then: "Here's your money," he said,returning the envelope.

"Then you refuse?"

"I refuse."

"Stubborn fellow! And unbelieving! You doubt our power against you. Come, Iwill give you a glimpse of it, just the briefest glimpse. Suppose you tryto arrest me. You have been thinking of it, _now act_. I'm a suspiciouscharacter, I ought to be investigated. Well, do your duty. I might pointout that such an arrest would accomplish absolutely nothing, for youhaven't the slightest evidence against me and can get none, but I waivethat point because I want to show you that, even in so simple an effortagainst us as this, _you would inevitably fail_."

The man's impudence was passing all bounds. "You mean that I _cannot_arrest you?" menaced Coquenil.

"Precisely. I mean that with all your cleverness and with a distinctadvantage in position, here on the Champs Elysees with policemen all aboutus, _you cannot arrest me_."

"I say this in no spirit of bravado," continued the other with irritatinginsolence, "but so that you may remember my words and this warning when Iam gone." Then, with a final fling of defiance: "This is the first time youhave seen me, M. Coquenil, and you will probably never see me again, butyou will hear from me. _Now blow your whistle!_"

Coquenil was puzzled. If this was a bluff, it was the maddest, mostincomprehensible bluff that a criminal ever made. But if it was _not_ abluff? Could there be a hidden purpose here? Was the man deliberatelymaking some subtle move in the game he was playing? The detective paused tothink. They had come down the Champs Elysees, past the Ansonia, and werenearing the Rond Point, the best guarded part of Paris, where the shrillsummons of his police call would be answered almost instantly. And yet hehesitated.

"There is no hurry, I suppose," said the detective. "I'd like to ask aquestion or two."

"As many as you please."

With all the strength of his mind and memory Coquenil was studying hisadversary. That beard? Could it be false? And the swarthy tone of the skinwhich he noticed now in the improving light, was that natural? If notnatural, then wonderfully imitated. And the hands, the arms? He had watchedthese from the first, noting every movement, particularly the _left_ handand the _left_ arm, but he had detected nothing significant; the man usedhis hands like anyone else, he carried a cane in the right hand, lifted hishat with the right hand, offered the envelope with the right hand. Therewas nothing to show that he was not a right-handed man.

"I wonder if you have anything against me personally?" inquired M. Paul.

"On the contrary," declared the other, "we admire you and wish you well."

"But you threaten my dog?"

"If necessary, yes."

"And my mother?"

"_If necessary_."

The decisive moment had come, not only because Coquenil's anger was stirredby this cynical avowal, but because just then there shot around the cornerfrom the Avenue Montaigne a large red automobile which crossed the ChampsElysees slowly, past the fountain and the tulip beds, and, turning into theAvenue Gabrielle, stopped under the chestnut trees, its engines throbbing.Like a flash it came into the detective's mind that the same automobile hadpassed them once before some streets back. Ah, here was the intended way ofescape! On the front seat were two men, strong-looking fellows,accomplices, no doubt. He must act at once while the wide street was stillbetween them.

"I ask because--" began M. Paul with his indifferent drawl, then swiftlydrawing his whistle, he sounded a danger call that cut the air in sinisteralarm. The stranger sprang away, but Coquenil was on him in a bound,clutching him by the throat and pressing him back with intertwining legsfor a sudden fall. The bearded man saved himself by a quick turn, and witha great heave of his shoulders broke the detective's grip, then suddenly_he_ attacked, smiting for the neck, not with clenched fist but with theopen hand held sideways in the treacherous cleaving blow that the Japaneseuse when they strike for the carotid. Coquenil ducked forward, savinghimself, but he felt the descending hand hard as stone on his shoulders.

"He struck with his _right_," thought M. Paul.

At the same moment he felt his adversary's hand close on his throat andrejoiced, for he knew the deadly Jitsu reply to this. Hardening his neckmuscles until they covered the delicate parts beneath like bands of steel,the detective seized his enemy's extended arm in his two hands, one at thewrist, one at the elbow, and as his trained fingers sought the painfulpressure points, his two free arms started a resistless torsion movement onthe captured arm. There is no escape from this movement, no enduring itsexcruciating pain; to a man taken at such a disadvantage one of two thingsmay happen. He may yield, and in that case he is hurled helpless over hisadversary's shoulder, or he may resist, with the result that the tendonsare torn from his lacerated arm and he faints in agony.

Such was the master hold gained by M. Paul in the first minute of thestruggle; long and carefully he had practiced this coup with a wrestlingprofessional. It never failed, it could not fail, and, in savage triumph,he prolonged his victory, slowly increasing the pressure, slowly as he feltthe tendons stretching, the bones cracking in this helpless right arm. Afew seconds more and the end would come, a few seconds more and--then acrashing, shattering pain drove through Coquenil's lower heart region, hisarms relaxed, his hands relaxed, his senses dimmed, and he sank weakly tothe ground. His enemy had done an extraordinary thing, had delivered ablow not provided for in Jitsu tactics. In spite of the torsion torture,he had swung his free arm under the detective's lifted guard, not inYokohama style but in the best manner of the old English prize ring, hisclenched fist falling full on the point of the heart, full on the unguardedsolar-plexus nerves which God put there for the undoing of the vaingloriousfighters. And Coquenil dropped like a smitten ox with this thought hummingin his darkening brain: "_It was the left that spoke then_."

As he sank to the ground M. Paul tried to save himself, and seizing hisopponent by the leg, he held him desperately with his failing strength; butthe spasms of pain overcame him, his muscles would not act, and with afurious sense of helplessness and failure, he felt the clutched legslipping from his grasp. Then, as consciousness faded, the brute instinctin him rallied in a last fierce effort and _he bit the man deeply under theknee_.

When Coquenil came to himself he was lying on the ground and severalpolicemen were bending over him. He lifted his head weakly and looked abouthim. The stranger was gone. The automobile was gone. And it all came backto him in sickening memory, the flaunting challenge of this man, the fiercestruggle, his own overconfidence, and then his crushing defeat. Ah, what ablow that last one was with the conquering left!

And suddenly it flashed through his mind that he had been outwitted fromthe first, that the man's purpose had not been at all what it seemed to be,that a hand-to-hand conflict was precisely what the stranger had sought andplanned for, because--_because_--In feverish haste Coquenil felt in hisbreast pocket for the envelope with the precious leather fragments. It wasnot there. Then quickly he searched his other pockets. It was not there._The envelope containing the woman's name and address was gone_.

CHAPTER X

GIBELIN SCORES A POINT

The next day all Paris buzzed and wondered about this Ansonia affair, as itwas called. The newspapers printed long accounts of it with elaboratedetails, and various conjectures were made as to the disappearance ofMartinez's fair companion. More or less plausible theories were also putforth touching the arrested American, prudently referred to as "MonsieurK., a well-known New Yorker." It was furthermore dwelt upon as significantthat the famous detective, Paul Coquenil, had returned to his old place onthe force for the especial purpose of working on this case. And M. Coquenilwas reported to have already, by one of his brilliant strokes, secured aclew that would lead shortly to important revelations. Alas, no one knewunder what distressing circumstances this precious clew had been lost!

Shortly before nine by the white clock over the columned entrance to thePalais de Justice, M. Paul passed through the great iron and gilt barrierthat fronts the street and turning to the left, mounted the wide stonestairway. He had had his snatch of sleep at the _haman_, his rubdown andcold plunge, but not his intended bout with the wrestling professional. Hehad had wrestling enough for one day, and now he had come to keep hisappointment with Judge Hauteville.

Two flights up the detective found himself in a spacious corridor off whichopened seven doors leading to the offices of seven judges. Seven! Strangethis resemblance to the fatal corridor at the Ansonia! And stranger stillthat Judge Hauteville's office should be Number Six!

Coquenil moved on past palace guards in bright apparel, past sad-facedwitnesses and brisk lawyers of the court in black robes with amusing whitebibs at their throats. And presently he entered Judge Hauteville's privateroom, where an amiable _greffier_ asked him to sit down until the judgeshould arrive.

There was nothing in the plain and rather businesslike furnishings of thisroom to suggest the somber and sordid scenes daily enacted here. On thedull leather of a long table, covered with its usual litter of papers, hadbeen spread the criminal facts of a generation, the sinister harvest ofignorance and vice and poverty. On these battered chairs had sat andtwisted hundreds of poor wretches, innocent and guilty, petty thieves,shifty-eyed scoundrels, dull brutes of murderers, and occasionally acriminal of a higher class, summoned for the preliminary examinations.Here, under the eye of a bored guard, they had passed miserable hours whilethe judge, smiling or frowning, hands in his pockets, strode back and forthover the shabby red-and-green carpet putting endless questions, sifting out